Sunrise at Plockton, Wester Ross sees this golden reflection as if the Gates of Heaven were left ajar, Scotland.
Poem.
The gossamer sunlit trails of a calm bay at sunrise.
The moored yachts, motionless, seemingly frozen on these bejewelled, mirrored waters.
The rising sun gleams in pearlescent brilliance.
The silhouetted domed hills of Loch Carron are a
grey and indigo backcloth to this
quicksilver and golden sea.
This is Plockton-
at any time- superb,
at dawn on a summer’s morning,
we have entered the golden gates of heaven!
Sunrise at Plockton, Wester Ross sees this golden reflection as if the Gates of Heaven were left ajar, Scotland.
Poem.
The gossamer sunlit trails of a calm bay at sunrise.
The moored yachts, motionless, seemingly frozen on these bejewelled, mirrored waters.
The rising sun gleams in pearlescent brilliance.
The silhouetted domed hills of Loch Carron are a
grey and indigo backcloth to this
quicksilver and golden sea.
This is Plockton-
at any time- superb,
at dawn on a summer’s morning,
we have entered the golden gates of heaven!